From These Scraps of Fabric
by Soimcoolwithlife
Summary: After Connor is kid napped and tortured for months, Will tries to piece their lives back together.


**Hello again. So news on my stories: I am writing Colors now. However, faults is going on temporary hiatus. I will get it finished, probably with 2 more chapters, by the middle of May... Sorry, but you guys deserve to have a final answer about it. I am so sorry, and I hope I will finish it soon. I have one more chapter of this(and then possibly a sequel in the works), I also have one we're Connor has a headache. So...I'm loving Rhodestead lately. What ship do you want to see next? Any plot bunnies? Please?**

He doesn't want to call Will.

If he calls Will, they are going to hurt Will.

Will is going to get hurt.

No.

Will...

Will can't.

He's tied to a beam on the ceiling, his toes just gracing the ground. His body is covered in blood, most of it his. The rest of it...he doesn't want to think about it. He hurts, everywhere...Everywhere burns... He can't... He doesn't... He's...

He feels terrible. He feels sick. He is sick, drugged. He's sick, regular sick, not normal sick, something sick. They pushed needles into him, so many. He went numb, he's on fire. He doesn't even know what to feel.

His fever, his cuts. Everything hurts actually. That's what he's going to decide on. Pain. They had started by knocking him out on the street after a long shift, and dragged him into an allleyway. He woke up, tied to a ceiling, someone talking to him. They wanted something. They hadn't realized they had injected him with way to many drugs. He couldn't understand them, or they were speaking in a language he didn't know. It couldn't be Russian, Spanish, Japanese, Portuguese, French...any of the others. He knew those. Maybe it was a combination of the drugs and a new language.

Then, they hurt him. He didn't know why, but every blow hurt. They started with fists, five men hitting him at the same time. Soon, they water-boarded him, until he couldn't breathe anymore. It progressed to iron knuckles, then to whips. His body was bruised, broken, and bleeding. Then, they used the knives, drawing long, deep lines into his body. They wrote words, terrible words. They knew never to kill him, but to keep him in agony. He would never scream, he couldn't scream. Screaming made it worse, they would make it worse.

Next, they used guns. They shot at him, grazes on the chest and stomach, just enough to bleed just a bit. Next, they shot him in non-life threatening places, in the arm, leg, as such. He would bleed, bleed so much. They would give him blood, but it was tinged, poisoned, with something to make it burn through his body, setting his whole body on fire.

They ask if he wants to call someone. He would never. Never. He couldn't call Will, even though he wants to so bad. He can't hurt Will like that.

They bandaged his wounds, in a crude, painful way, stitching him up without pain medication. Uneven stitches, a large needle, pressing harder than needed. They scanned him, ran tests, operated on him, just to see if they could.

But worst of all, they...used him. Hands...hands running across his bleeding body. Whispered things in his ears...hands clutching his waist tightly as they slammed his body against a wall. A cold, concrete wall, that made his broken body scream in pain...they thrust into him. God...They didn't stop, he didn't cry. They took that as a sign to keep going, but he couldn't...He couldn't.

They didn't...

He couldn't...

But he couldn't talk, he didn't know what they wanted him to say. He doubted that he would tell them even if he knew what they wanted him too.

But they wouldn't stop, pain, agony burning through him. They left him on the floor, almost crying. But he wouldn't, he couldn't. He passed out.

When he woke up, he was dangling from the ceiling again. They were beating him again. They used knives dipped in poison, using the handle to hit him first, then heating the blade and pressing it onto his skin, then slicing him and stabbing him, not so deep that it would kill him instantly, just deep enough to make him bleed out eventually.

They scanned him, starting surgery on him. It was like nothing he ever knew. They slashed through him, stitched him up internally, stitching him back up. They were always careful not to rip his stitches, the important ones. They would gently caress him, but he would rather they beat him.

He realized there was a pattern. They would beat him, knives, guns, etc...Then, they would stich him up, then rape him. It was a vicious cycle. How long had he been here? Hours, days, weeks?

Eventually, he just didn't feel it anymore. He was blank, a useless corpse, dead to the world.

* * *

Will had been worried. Everyone had, really. Connor had been tired, he had done nineteen hours every day that week. Saturday, he didn't show up. He didn't call in, he didn't mention he was sick or anything. They figured he forgot.

On Sunday, it was the same. Monday, Tuesday. They needed a trauma surgeon on Connor's shifts. Latham couldn't do heart surgery alone either, there were to many patients.

On Wednesday, Maggie asked him to go to Connor's place. No one was home. His bag wasn't there, there was no sign that he had been there since Thursday night. That's when he called the police. Connor was not the kind of guy to never call, not show up.

He would know. Connor was a great guy. Will had met with him for coffee one morning, and it had taken off. Three months later, they had moved in with each other. Oh, wait. That was his fantasy.

The truth? Will had spilled coffee on Connor one morning, and Connor didn't take it that badly. They had ended up kissing in an elevator by the end of the day. Yeah, nothing more. Three months later, they were actually on no better terms, but they both obviously harbored feeling for each other.

Jay came. He had information on Connor, and it wasn't good. They didn't know anything, no security footage, no information. Will was so confused. Police were supposed to know things. He didn't talk to his brother for a week.

Weeks went by. Weeks and weeks of worrying. So many people in his bed. He didn't have feelings for them, he hardly even knew their names, but he needed something. Then, a warm hand was on his shoulder and Natalie was standing there, tears streaming down her face, smiling so sadly.

"Will...It's... I'm so sorry. There's going to be...a memorial service."

* * *

The memorial service hurt him. Everyone had given up hope for Connor to come back. Everyone. How could they just stop caring? Was no one looking anymore? They cleared out his stuff, forgot him.

One day, almost three months after Connor had gone missing, there was a report of a warehouse fire. Jay called, telling Will that the building that was burning might have Connor in it. The people might have taken Connor.

So, he goes on the ambulance with Dawson, nervous. If she can see how he's on the verge of a mental breakdown, she doesn't say anything. Connor could still be alive. It was a huge shock. Connor, the man he fell in love with, avoided, cared for, migh still be alive.

The firefighters said the fire had almost burned out. He could see now, only wisps of smoke escaped from the blackened building. There were people evacuated, standing on the street, cuffed, angry. There was a tall, burly man, speaking rapidly in what seemed like Dutch, according to a firefighter. The man had blood on his hands, and it wasn't his.

He felt himself drawn towards the building. There was a feeling inside him. Connor was alive, somehow, somewhere. He went into the building, with a bag of medical supplies over his shoulder. The ground was wet from the hoses, and everything was burnt.

The first thing he saw was a corridor. At the end, a large metal door stood, imposing. There was a control panel on the side, set to _In/Not Out._ Whatever that meant, it probably wasn't good. He turned the wheel, like on a bank vault, cautiously opening the door.

The inside of the room was thick with smoke, and he could hear a faint coughing. It was so dark, he couldn't see, nor breathe. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, and squinted through the gloom, trying to find a window. There were two in the back, and he carefully followed the wall, only to find a window painted shut. He used a pocket knife, wiggling the latch open, and opened the window wide. He did the same to the other, and stepped back, letting the light, and cool air, flow into the dark, smoky room. He turned around.

The sight that met his eyes was terrible. There were no other words for it. Connor was hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, wearing only black skinny jeans. He was covered in blood, fresh, dried. His wrists were tied to a beam in the ceiling, bloody and scarred. His whole torso was a mess of cuts and messy stitches, bruises and broken ribs. Blood was still trickling from some wounds. His legs weren't much better, bloody, cut, shot.

The worst of it? Connor wasn't struggling. He was still, lifeless. His head hung low, and he made no effort to keep himself on his toes to avoid suffocating. He didn't even look up when Will walked in. Will rushed over to him. Lifeless. No. Connor looked worse so close up. Instantly, he noticed Connor wasn't dead. He wasn't cold at all, in fact, he was very feverish. His breath was shallow, punctuated by coughs.

Will's gentle hands cupped Connor's face, and Connor flinched, but didn't look at him. Will found tears running down his face, as he gently ran his thumb over a scar along Connor's cheek.

"It's me Connor. Will. It's over now," he found himself saying, crying. Connor didn't look at him, stayed still, didn't acknowledge him.

"Please Connor. Please! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" He was a mess now, tears running down his cheeks, trying to get Connor to look at him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Connor raised his head, meeting Will's eyes. Connor's gorgeous stare, bright blue and perfect, shining like the sun, were gone. His eyes were dull, sad, aching. Hopeless.

"It's not you."

Connor's voice is rough, aching, like it hadn't been used in a while. But what he says, that's the killer. He doesn't believe Will would come and save him, not anymore.

"It is, it's over. I'm so sorry Connor. It's me. I came. They're gone."

"It can't be you."

"Connor..."

Connor's eyes search him, trying to tell if he's lying, trying to find his Halstead.

"You...you came?"

It's painful how little faith is left in him. Will's heart aches, because Connor sounds so doubtful. Why would he hope now?

"Yes. It's over now."

That's the moment Connor breaks. A hint of a smile , daring himself to believe that's it's his Halstead.

"It's over?"

Will can only nod, crying. Connor smiles, and looks so happy, so happy that he's free after all this time.

"Thank you."

And his head drops to his chest. No. No, no, no. No. Connor wasn't...He wasn't? Will's hands frantically try and find a pulse, and...nothing...wait.

He smiles as he feels a faint thrumming under his fingertips.

"Connor. Hey, Rhodes. Stay awake. Connor?" But Connor's eyes don't open, he doesn't move, and his breathing gets worse.

"I NEED A BACKBOARD IN HERE, NOW!" He screams at the top of his lungs, cause Connor is getting more pale by the minute. Dawson and Brett rush in, and stop at the door.

"Rescue?" She asks like it's a fucking option that Connor might be dead already.

"I need 2 units of saline, right now," he snaps. He realizes. 2 units of saline, that's nothing. He might give that to a flu patient. 2 units of saline, so insignificant. Connor was broken and bloody and he was giving him saline.

He breaks. He stumbles, ends up sliding to the floor as Dawson and Brett work. He can only stare in a daze as they try and stop the bleeding out and put him on an oxygen mask. They can't even give him blood, because the blood in his body is poison. He listens to them quickly discuss how to treat him, hooking up to a heart monitor and an EKG. Then they are rushing out, Will finding himself helping them, beside Connor isn't supposed to be that...still.

In the ambulance, they try to calm his raging fever, and figure out what's wrong with his lungs. His fever was worse, always worse, 104.3 degrees now. Dangerous. He watches as they bandage his wrists, bloody, burned and scarred. When Connor flinches, even though he's not conscious, he silently takes Connor's wrist in his palm, gently wrapping it, cleaning his fingers and palms of dry blood, being careful. That's when he hears Dawson.

"I think...He was raped."


End file.
